Metamorphosis
by ForeverNDarkness
Summary: Before she was Satin Sin, she was Chryssatin Sinclair. Innocence is precious, if only because it is fleeting. -FORMERLY "MIDNIGHT SYNDICATE"
1. First Stage I

Disclaimer: The world this drabble takes place in is (c) belongs to me, as well as the characters mentioned and used.

**FND: **Welcome, one and all, to _Metamorphosis_, an origin story. Please read the note at the bottom!

Thank you!

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**-METAMORPHOSIS-**

_"All things truly wicked start from innocence." _

_-Ernest Hemingway_

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**I.**

With her eyes still screwed up tightly in pretend sleep, she realized that she could not hear her father's footsteps. Oh, perhaps he was being especially quiet so as to catch her unawares. He liked to surprise her, her papa. Her fingers plucked at her cover restlessly as she waited, her eyes beginning to ache from holding them closed for so long. She waited and waited, listening for him, but the house was still silent and the hall empty of feet. Finally, dark lashes lifted from alabaster cheeks, golden eyes staring petulantly at the slanted wooden beams of her ceilings. Chryssatin Sinclair rarely pouted, but this once, the two-and-a-half year-old felt justified.

Every morning, right at dawn, her father tiptoed down the hallway-his feet were too big to be very quiet and she'd pretend to be sleeping, to fool him-and he would peek into her room.

_"Why, look, a lovely little faerie sleeping in my bed," _he'd whisper in awe. _"I must have pleased a goddess somewhere for her to bring me such a precious gift." _And then he would cross the room, lean over her, and tickle her. She'd laugh and shout to startle him, before she leapt at him. _"Oh, no faerie at all, but my little Chryssie! Do you wish to fly like a faerie, darling?" _He'd lift her high in his arms and fly her through the house, out in the yard, and back into the kitchen, where her mother would smile at them as she finished making the morning meal.

But this morning, for the first time ever, he hadn't come. He'd forgotten her, or perhaps he didn't want to play today. Today, Chryssie wanted to fly.

After only a moment's sulk, she sat up, her blanket pooling at her tiny waist and her hair tumbling down her back in riotous black waves. Her papa _did_ work hard and maybe he was only overtired? He'd never forgotten her before. But he hadn't even come in to wish her a good morning. She glanced out the hole carved into the wood, frowning slightly at the sun already halfway over the horizon. It was indeed morning, later than ever, and he still hadn't come.

Her fingers anxiously pleated the edge of her cover and she stared down at her fingers pensively. Maybe her papa was sick? That could be the only reason he would not come and see her. He had been coughing the last week or so, but Mama had assured her it was nothing more than cold air in his body left over from working in the winter. Papa took a chill whenever the weather was foul, but it had never stopped him from their game.

Carefully, she shifted and wiggled around until her little feet hesitantly touched the harsh, cold floor. She let out a startled breath before she strengthened her resolve and rested the pads of her feet down. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and made her way quietly to her door. The wood opened without a creak or a groan, a testament to her father's skill.

She poked her head out into the hall, glanced left, glanced right, and frowned at the sound of voices coming from her kitchen. It was not her mother's soothing faerie voice or her father's deep, poetic voice. These voices were gruff, loud. Chryssie made a face as she crept down the hallway, closer to the kitchen. Those voices sounded like _villagers_. Chryssie didn't care much for villagers, despite her parents' good opinions of them and people in general. She was scared of them; they made her stomach flutter in a nasty way whenever they came to her home. She pressed her back against the frame of the door and listened.

"...you need while he is ill, Mistress Sinclair, please, do not hesitate to ask of us." A gentle, eager voice, perhaps one of the young men.

"The wild is frightful this time of year, Mistress Sinclair. Your husband is skilled and knowledgeable about these woods, but I confess I do not understand his reasoning for venturing in this weather. Well, it matters little now." A second male voice, raspy with age and cold. "He is back home, where he belongs."

"Matters little indeed." Yet another male voice, stiff and prim. Chryssie knew that voice and her shoulders hunched as her stomach cramped terribly. It belonged to Brandon Carey. He was the village blacksmith, and the little girl held him in the lowest opinion such a young child could muster. "I believe he takes a hard fever, Mistress Sinclair. Perhaps you will see to him? He works in the village among us and we desire no mystery illness of his own doing to befall the lot of us."

"I know what ails my husband." There, Mama's voice, soft and weary. A broken-winged faerie.

"Mistress Sinclair," Brandon inquired slowly, coldly, "perhaps this illness...is not of your husband Master Sinclair's doing at all?"

"I do not understand your question. My husband is fevered and you yourself have told me that you came upon him in the woods. If not the doing of so many factors, then what do you propose, Master Carey?"

There was only a heartbeat of silence. "Perhaps _your _doing, Mistress Sinclair?"

A fist thumped loudly on the table, the raspy voice bellowing, "_Brandon_!"

"She is supposed to be a healer," Brandon argued condescendingly. "And the husband of the town healer falls suddenly ill? It is no coincidence, Masters."

"How _dare _you insinuate such a thing," the young male hissed. "Mistress Sinclair is an angel of the highest caliber, she does so much good for all of us. Why, she even nursed my Emily back to health two winters ago! _Damn_ you, Carey, to insult such a good woman!"

"George. Jeremiah." Her mother's voice was a sigh, only barely audible over the crackling of the hearth fire. "It was only a question... wasn't it, Master Carey?"

Chryssie held her breath, waiting. Mama rarely, if ever, yelled, but she feared her mother would flay his skin from his bones with her words. What if he struck her for her tongue?

"Master Carey... Every winter and spring, my husband Christopher is ill. It has always been this way for him and his father before him. And yes, healer that I am, I cannot stop such a thing. When I say I know what ails my husband, it is only because we live with it every year. Do you wish me to truly believe, Master Carey, that as a blacksmith, your own horse never needs shoeing?"

"Oh, you speak as if you knew the very thing of forging. But do not forget your place, Mistress Sinclair," Brandon reminded her icily. "You are still a woman and you cannot change this."

"You are in my home, Master Carey, and I can change _that_." The back door was opening, Chryssie felt the cold air skitter under the door to chill her feet. "Good day, George, Jeremiah. Master Carey. I sincerely thank you for bringing Christopher home. Take care on the path, please, for the stones are slick today."

"Good day, Mistress Sinclair." Old Jeremiah's footsteps were slow, but sure, when he walked out.

"Take care of that leg, Jeremiah."

"Yes, milady."

"Good day, Mistress Sinclair. Please, if you need any sort of assistance, Emily and I would be all too happy to help you."

"Thank you, George. Give Emily my best."

Chryssie risked a glance through her peephole in the door. She was unable to be of much help, but she did not want Mama to be alone with Brandon Carey. He was mean, scary. Heather stood at the door, holding the wood open for the last of her _guests _to leave. Brandon loomed over her. Chryssie bit her lip. He was so very big, and her mama was so dainty. His wide face was flushed red, the muscles in his thick neck and arms taut. He yanked his hat onto his head, glaring down at Heather. "Your husband lets you speak too freely for my taste."

Heather jerked her chin up, met his gaze head on, and Chryssie saw that this made him very angry. Another knot tightened inside her stomach and she let out a tiny whimper at the discomfort.

The woman kept her gold eyes intent on Brandon's face. "It is a good thing your taste matters not to me, Master Carey. The husband that I have loves me as I am." Mama's voice was still quiet, calm, but Chryssie shivered nonetheless. Her mama was very angry, she could feel it. "Please leave, Master Carey."

He leaned closer, menacing. He was close enough to spit or bite, but Heather would not step away, would not retreat. "Do you not see the folly in this, Heather?" he demanded. "You were not promised to Christopher Sinclair, but to me." His fingers curled around her arm, jerked her hard against him, his other hand gripping her wrist. "Your father promised you to me and you married Sinclair, you _embarrassed _me."

Chryssie backed away slowly from the door, her fingers pressed against her lips to stifle her gasp of fear and pain. He was going to hurt her mama, he was going to hurt her bad. Her other hand pressed against her stomach, desperate to stop the nasty pain knifing inside. She jumped when she felt a cold, weak hand on her shoulder, glanced up into green eyes as that hand nudged her gently out of the way.

"I made my intentions clear from the beginning to both my father and to you, Master Carey, and I swore I would never marry you. You are a monster, a brute and a bully. I love Christopher and I don't love you, simple as that. I'll not have you come into my home and accuse me of nonsense, will not _stand _for you coming here and trying to dispel my happiness with my family." She bared her teeth in an unladylike growl when he flexed his fingers, trying to crush her wrist in his massive hand. "You had best take your hands from me."

"Pray, listen to milady's words." His fair face bathed in the faint light of the fire, Christopher Sinclair's green eyes seemed to glow. "You will want to release my wife now, Carey."

Brandon stepped back, dropped Heather's arm and wrist with a grunt. His cold eyes appraised the leaner man. "You have the look of some of your health back, Sinclair."

"Aye. Tis a pity you will lose some of yours, Carey." He walked with slow, careful steps. "I thank you, indeed, for bringing me home. But there will be no thanks in the way you handle my wife."

Brandon cocked his head. "Jealous, Sinclair, that I should handle your wife at all?"

"No. For I know my Heather is true, just as sure as I know she can handle the likes of _you_. We have had this debate between us once before, just after Heather and I were wed. There is no law that decrees you must have love in your heart for me as your neighbor." His voice was soft, only a hint of darkness in his tone. "But there will be not a hand raised to harm her, lest you wish to deal with me." His eyes flared. "I promise you, Brandon Carey. That will be one fight you cannot bully your way out of. Now...I believe my lovely wife bid you a good day." He nodded courteously to the door. "Mind the wet stones on your way down."

Brandon scowled between the pair of them as he stomped out the door. "This is not over, Sinclair."

"No," the couple said in unison, watching him go, "it is not."

Christopher closed the door and held out a hand in silence. Heather turned her hand to expose her wrist and the ugly marks already forming there. Without a sound, he brought her hand to his face and touched his lips to the bruises and reddened skin. She sighed and reached up with her other hand to touch his face. The skin was cold, clammy. "You have only minutes before it fades away," she murmured with concern.

"I will be fine. Fetch Chryssie, Heather." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "She hides beside the door."

"I know that. Why else would I allow Brandon Carey to speak to me in that manner in my own home?" She could feel his mouth smiling against her skin at her indignation. "Our little faerie will _not _see me take a butcher's blade to the likes of him."

The fingers resting on Heather's shoulders twitched, curled. "It's slipping." His voice sounded strained. "Please, go, Heather, take Chryssie. I do not wish for her to see me as..."

"I know, my love." His body was already beginning to tremble terribly, his breath wheezing in his chest. She hugged him tight for one moment more before she released him and strode from the room. There was their little one, curled in a ball with her back pressed to the wall. "Chryssie." That little dark head lifted and her daughter's golden eyes were swimming with tears. "Ohh, little faerie, whatever is the matter?"

"Stomach hurts, Mama. Makes my stomach hurt. Bad man." The child's face crumpled into a sob and she raised her arms to be held. "Bad man, Mama."

Heather was in the middle of lifting her when she heard the terrible _thud_ of her husband's knees hitting the floor. His glamour had faded, the appearance of health he'd summoned now dispelled. She swiftly took her daughter to the other end of their home, murmuring soothing nonsense over the sounds of Christopher's gasping and violent coughing.

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**FND: **And so begins the tale of Chryssatin Sinclair, the child who would become Satin Sin. Comments? Questions? Let's hear them, guys!

Also: _**QUICK UPDATE!**_ For those of you unaware, **THE FIRST 8 CHAPTERS OF VH HAVE BEEN REWRITTEN! CHAPTERS 1-6 HAVE BEEN UPLOADED! **So please, by all means, check 'em out!


	2. First Stage II

Disclaimer: The world this drabble takes place in is (c) belongs to me, as well as the characters mentioned and used.

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**-METAMORPHOSIS-**

_"All things truly wicked start from innocence." _

_-Ernest Hemingway_

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**I.**

"...say that she was a woman, and in spite of this, she became their Pharaoh. That is what they call their king, in this far, far land."

Surrounded by tall, willowy flowers, four-year-old Chryssie's expression was tight with concentration as she knitted flower stems together intricately. "She was a king because she was charming, right, Papa?"

"Charming. Lovely." Propped on his elbows, Christopher watched his daughter through low-lidded green eyes as she worked. Heather was in the village, making her weekly market trip. Chryssie would go, if they asked it of her, but he knew his little faerie would rather avoid the village and its people. He sighed softly with the want to close his eyes and rest his aching, frustratingly sickly body. By all the gods, he was weary, but he would never miss a chance to spend time with his daughter. They would have such precious little. "But most of all, Chryssie, she was cunning and brilliant. She was a learned woman, well-educated, and she was athletic and powerful. A woman's might is not only in her body and her charms, Chryssie, but in her mind." He gingerly bent his heavy head so Chryssie could make sure her wreath was the right size. "You will always be more than what a _man _believes you to be worth."

"Yes, Papa, I know." He always told her such things, and she accepted them, unaware that these thoughts were being considered abominations of the natural order. She knotted two more stems together, careful not to crush the fragile greenery. "Did you know I do not wish to be a farmer's wife when I grow up, Papa?"

He chuckled at the change in topic. Such a young child to consider such a serious thing as marriage. "Oh, no?" he asked.

"No. I do not wish to be a blacksmith's wife either." There was a tint of annoyance in her voice at the mention of the trade; Christopher acknowledge silently his mutual dislike for blacksmiths-one in particular. "I do not wish to be a clergyman's wife either."

Christopher turned onto his side, resting his cheek on his bunched fist. He listened for a few moments as she rattled off all the things that she absolutely did not wish to be. When she finally paused for breath, he questioned, "What _do _you wish to be when you grow up, darling?"

Chryssie caught her lip between her teeth as she adjusted her knots. "I will be a goddess when I grow up, Papa."

He studied her intently for a long moment. "Oh," he murmured seriously. "Do you really, Chryssie?"

"Yes, Papa. I have decided that I will be no man's wife. I want to be worshiped, adored, because I shall be brilliant like you, Papa, and beautiful like Mama." She flashed a bright smile. "Everyone will want to be around me always and I will help them with all of their problems and they will do all that I wish in thanks."

Christopher sat pensively for a time while his child finished her work. Girls her age were already beginning to stop believing in the goddesses and wise women, to discard the lessons and stories of the older days. In the last few years, the goddesses had been cast down as whores and sinners, and a terrible trend was starting across the worlds. Special women, _innocent _women, were being sacrificed to asinine paranoia; he'd heard the tales, the stories of slow, violent deaths and stupid murderous tests to prove one's 'innocence'. And he feared them, as he had little else.

He knew that his Chryssie was special, just as every child and every woman down his bloodline had been special. Just as Christopher himself had once been-and secretly still was-special. But these days, in these times... her uniqueness could cost her a heavy price. The villagers would call Chryssatin wicked, a sinner, fallen from grace. A very rare, select few already thought of her mother, simply a healer, in that way. What would the future hold for his gentle, sensitive little girl? He knew that _he_ was safe from the fires, the drownings, the hangings, the stones and the blades. He would not live long enough to have to ever face them. So was the price of a Sinclair male that chose to retain their magics and their gifts into adulthood. But his Chryssie, why, when he was gone...

His eyes darkened with grief for a moment. When he was gone... how would she survive in the cold, changing world? She was a young girl, sensitive to the other side of the veil that separated the worlds, only just becoming aware of the existence of a power that hummed in her very blood. What could he possibly do for her? Christopher was tugged from his thoughts by an added weight to his already heavy head.

Chryssie was sitting back on her haunches, smiling at him. "It fits," she assured him with a touch of pride. The stem suddenly trembled and she cried, "Oh! Oh, no!" Her fingers reached up to quickly repair the slight damage. "Oh, there. There." She smiled again. "A simple solution to the problem."

He studied his daughter's face, considered possibilities. _A simple solution to the problem... _"Indeed," he murmured, touching a fingertip to an unopened bud. The flower bud matured and opened at his touch, fragrant petals reaching wide. Chryssie giggled and gently touched the blossom. What could he do for her? He could teach her, educate her. There was more for his daughter than the traditional roles for a woman-she herself wanted more than tradition for her future. And she would need all that he could teach her, show her, before the death that had mated with his magic stole him away. That was what he would do for the little fae he'd been blessed to have as a daughter. "Chryssie."

Those golden eyes were full of trust, affection, as she beamed at him. Christopher felt a pang in his heart; he'd truly only had such a short time to spend with his child. "Yes, Papa?"

"Come. It is time for your lessons to begin."

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**FND: **Yeah...I'm supposed to be sleeping now. But these chapters were just sitting here, and it's been so long since I updated. You're welcome! Please review, lad and lasses.


	3. First Stage III

Disclaimer: The world this drabble takes place in is (c) belongs to me, as well as the characters mentioned and used.

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**-METAMORPHOSIS-**

_"All things truly wicked start from innocence." _

_-Ernest Hemingway_

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**I.**

_She was walking down the stone path. It would lead her, as always, to the beautiful flower garden her mother had planted and her father helped tend. The scent of damp, freshly overturned soil hung heavily in the misty air. The sun was still peeking shyly over the horizon, the birds and the woods quiet for once._

_There was no breeze, but her skirt fluttered against her legs as she ran through the dewy green grass. At the end of the path, she could see the swaying tall grass that heralded the entrance to the garden. With a cheerful smile, she hurried her pace, eager to soak in the sweet, soothing scent and sight of her parents' efforts. It had always comforted her, being around nature, even more so as her papa educated her in the ways of nature and balance. There was power in all things living-and, just like the rest of her bloodline before her, she could use it, control it, manipulate it to suit her needs and bend to her will. She no longer feared the flutter and knotting in her stomach, understanding that it was her body's reaction to magic and strong emotion around her. _

_Now she could hear the soft trickling of the little creek that weaved through the plants, the whisper of flowers leaning against one another in the mist. She was almost there now._

_Her bare foot misstepped on the final stones and she stumbled, cried out in surprise as she fell. She crawled to her knees, swiped at the wet dirt on her cheek with the back of her hand as she sat up, relieved to know no one had been privy to her clumsiness. Blinking to reorient herself, she spotted the grand crowd of white lilacs just before her. Her smile was soft. They were so pretty, weren't they? She had always thought so. She reached out to touch one, keeping her hand steady and light. They were so delicate..._

_The thick leather boot came out of nowhere. The fragile stems made sick crunching sounds as they snapped, the pitiful silken petals shredding under the terrible pressure. She gasped softly, startled, her hand jerking back. Her gaze flew up and she stared into the hard eyes of Brandon Carey. He didn't seem to see her as he shifted and rotated the heel of his boot, grinding the tiny plant into the dirt._

_"N-No," she whispered, horrified. Her hand reached up for him as he dropped his foot down again on another crowd of lilacs. "No! Stop!"_

_He didn't hear her, continuing his casual, cruel destruction of what her parents had worked so hard to create together. His eyes were on the flowers as he hummed a sweet tune. And then there were others. More feet, bare and booted and slippered, all crushing the plants and flowers as they would a filthy insect. The villagers were ruining it all, they were ruining everything. "Stop!" she cried out, staggering to her feet as fury began to replace the horror and surprise. "Get out of here! How dare you!" She ran to Brandon and pounded her fists furiously against his long, hard legs. "Stop this now!"_

**Ring around the rosy...**

_He shoved her back and she lost her balance. When she was on the ground, the mist in the air thickened, curled into smoke. The smell was acrid, stinging her nose and her eyes. She forced herself up. "Oh!" Her golden eyes were wide, unbelieving. "No, no! NO!"_

_The garden was in flames. Towering, dancing, leaping flames that sang their hungry, crackling song. The sky was blacked-out by the smoke, the embers burning hotly in the sky. In the midst of the flames, the villagers danced gaily, laughing and singing as they continued to wreak ruin on the flowers not yet burning. The other children held hands and spun in circles as their little feet trampled the herbs and vegetables. They joined their parents in the song, their voices high and happy and cheerful._

**Pocketful of posies...**

_She scrambled to her feet, swinging her cloak from her shoulders. No one was stopping to save the garden; they just kept dancing. She had to put out the fire, had to save the garden. It was Mama and Papa's, it was hers, it was _**theirs**._ She couldn't let it die, couldn't help but try to stop this horror. "Help me!" she cried to them. The children weaved their game around her, behind her, back to the poor blackened, smoking flowers. "Oh, please, don't let them burn!"_

_No one seemed to hear her. No one seemed to care._

_Amidst the snapping of the flames, there was a terrible scream and her breath caught in her throat, smoke and fire burning her chest. "Papa. Papa!" Oh, gods, she had never heard him scream that way. No, not her brave, fearless papa. They had to be killing him, they were killing him, weren't they? They certainly weren't helping him. Where was he? She couldn't see him in the smoke, couldn't find him in the flames. Her skirt caught fire and she started her own screaming. She ran as swiftly as she could, batting at the flames with her hands, tearing at her skirt to free herself from burning to death._

**Ashes.. Ashes...**

_She found the creek, leapt inside. The water level was low and so she threw herself down, sat at the bottom. The water swished up against her chest. Her skirt was extinguished instantly, black smoke hissing as the fire sputtered and died. Oh, but her hands, her hands! How they burned! Crying out in pain, sobbing with the terror, the horror, she thrust them down, deep down into the water. She just wanted it to be over, she wanted to get out of here. Her peaceful garden, her family haven, was a nightmare, a demon's playground. _

_The water was dark, darker than it should've been, even with the encroaching darkness. It was thick, heavy. Whimpering, she lifted her shaking hands from the waters and stared at them with wide, shocked eyes. Rivers of blood dripped from her fingertips, trickling crimson down her wrists. The creek was filled with blood. She was sitting chest-deep in blood. She turned her head slowly. On the muddy bank of the creek, her parents were sprawled, faces contorted into terrible grimaces of torture and their chests ripped open. Their hands were reaching for her. It was their blood. She sat in her parents' blood, nearly bathed in it._

_Brandon Carey loomed over her suddenly, his shadow cast over her. The flames burned madly behind him, giving him the illusion of a black god. He tilted his head, looking down at her, and then his face split into a wide, horrible, happy smile. He lifted his voice to join the villagers, their children, the dead rasping voices that crawled from her parents' throats._

**We all fall down.

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**

"Chryssie!"

The door banged open loudly, bounced against the wall behind it with an ugly crash. Before it even swung back into place, Christopher and Heather had surrounded the bed, arms around their child. Even with their touch, their voices in her ear, she continued to scream. Her eyes were wide open and unfocused, the gold dark and shocked in the ashen pallor of her tear-streaked face. She was still screaming, screaming as if something were slowing rending her very flesh from her bones. The six-year-old's room reeked of smoke and smothered fire, but her parents could see no flames.

"Heather, Heather, her hands." Christopher's voice was an infuriated whisper, his breath rattling in his chest. "G-Goddess above, look at her hands."

Heather made a low, horrified sound. The skin of her daughter's palms was a frightful red, covered in welts and angry blisters. She looked as if she'd taken a flaming log from the hearth and clutched it in her hands. Heather rose swiftly to fetch her healing tools without another word.

Christopher curled his shaking child on his lap, pressed his lips to her temple as she howled. He knew what it was like, when you lacked the control to keep your own powers from turning on you when you were unfocused. He cursed himself furiously. He'd meant to teach her, it was one of her next and final lessons. But he had put it off, deciding that her powers were not formed enough for there to be such a danger. He closed his eyes, stirring his own weakened power into awakening. This was his fault; he had to do _something_ for Chryssie. He wove a spell into a prayer. _Blessed sun of heat and fire, watchful moon's protective ire, gather together all tame and wild, bless with peace my wounded child. I am of her and she is of me. As I will, so mote it be._

Chryssie's screams broke off into pitiful weeping. She turned her face against her father's shoulder, shaking terribly in his arms. She kept her injured hands curled close against her body as she sobbed. Christopher's hand rubbed a slow, soothing circle against her back. Her nightshirt was soaked through with cold sweat, her hair a tangled, damp mess. Her mother returned, her basket in her hands, just as Chryssie's broken cries softened to exhausted whimpers.

"Chryssatin." Christopher's voice was quiet where his lips remained pressed to her head. Heather lit a candle to give her better sight in the dark. She sat down beside them and unloaded her basket, murmuring soft nonsense in the way of all mothers. Christopher ran his hand slowly up and down Chryssie's arm. He had been so sure that her powers were too young, undeveloped, even with their lessons, to have caused such damage. Something had triggered it, something that had greatly upset his daughter. It was the only explanation. "Tell me. Tell me what you saw in your dreams."

She told him everything. Walking down the path, the villagers and their destruction, the fire, being soaked in a creek of blood. As she recounted her nightmare to her parents, Heather carefully applied a cooling salve to her burns, kissed her forehead when wrapping the bandages made her whimper. When she was finished telling the tale and her hands had been treated, the small family sat together quietly in the dark for a time.

"This will not happen again."

Chryssie lifted tear-ravaged eyes to look up into her father's face. His features were grim, his eyes dark. She had never seen him look so fierce. "Papa?"

He curled his arms tighter around her, his mouth a hard line. "This will _not _happen again," he repeated slowly. "Forgive me, Chryssie..." Heather touched his cheek gently, understanding his guilt. "Tomorrow... Tomorrow we work on control."

Chryssie said nothing, only curling closer to her father. She lay there, listening to his heart beating strongly. The sound had always been soothing to her. She could hear his breath wheezing deep in his chest, knew that it meant he was not getting better. With a soft sigh, Heather pulled the cover up around the three of them to ward off the cold.

It was going to be a long night.

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**FND: **Poor Chryssie... :( Nightmares aren't fun for the average and powerless, never mind a child like her! Please read and review; let me know what you think!


	4. First Stage IV

Disclaimer: The world this drabble takes place in is (c) belongs to me, as well as the characters mentioned and used.

* * *

**-METAMORPHOSIS-**

_"All things truly wicked start from innocence." _

_-Ernest Hemingway_

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**I.**

The end of the world started some weeks later, with a simple day trip into the village.

Walking slowly down the dirt road toward the village center, Chryssie eyed every person that walked past with suspicion and distrust. Her parents walked on either side of her, each of them holding one of her hands. Every time someone approached, Chryssie would grip their hands tighter, watching warily until the person was gone. Every villager that greeted the little girl was ruthlessly ignored.

Heather and Christopher exchanged slightly exasperated looks. Although they understood that her nightmare weeks ago had frightened her terribly, they wished they could do something to ease her in the presence of the villagers. Honestly, the people had given Chryssie no reason to dislike them as terribly as she did, but she could not be dissuaded from her low opinion of them. Nothing they had been able to tell her had made any difference. The fact that Christopher's illness had grown frightfully worse in the last fortnight had only made Chryssie a fiercer protector.

Heather stopped walking and bent down to look in her child's eyes with a smile, her bundle of supplies curled in her arm. "I will return shortly, Chryssie. I must go and pay a visit to Mistress Greene and her newest little one."

The golden eyes searched her face intently. "I will come with you," she decided at last.

"Truly, Chryssie, it will be alright. Stay with Papa." Heather's flexed her fingers comfortingly around her daughter's smaller hand. "I shall return within the hour." She added a touch of firmness to her voice when Chryssie refused to let her hand go. "Chryssie," she murmured.

"Tis alright, little faerie," her father said wearily, nudging her closer against his side. "Mama will be back soon. Come, come. We will go and drop a coin in the well. You enjoy that."

She pursed her lips crossly. "But, Papa-"

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, a soft, secret reminder to mind herself. "Give Mistress Greene and little Peter my best," he reminded his wife gently.

"I shall." Heather rose to her feet, casually sweeping at the dust on her skirt. "Behave yourself, you two."

Chryssie's fingers tightened around her father's anxiously as she watched her mother go. To distract her, Christopher swung her arm gently as he strolled towards the well. When they had walked for a short time, he could feel her fingers gradually relax around his. It was quieter here, in this part of town. Nearly everyone was at the market this time of the day, and he knew that it would comfort Chryssie when less people were around.

Finally they came to the long dirt path that would take them up the hill where the little well sat. Slowly, they made their way up the winding path, Chryssie watching her father cautiously as they made the slow climb. Once, not that long ago, it would've taken them only minutes to make the climb. Now, it took more than half of an hour. Her papa was always so tired, so breathless. She stopped often to wait for him. When they came to the well, Chryssie stood on the tips of her toes to peer down into the dark, reflective depths.

Christopher smiled tiredly down at her as she tossed a tiny pebble down. A tiny smile curled her lips as she heard the stone splash. Little things gave her such pleasure; it did his heart good to see. They stood quietly together for a time, taking comfort and enjoyment in each other's silent company. He rubbed his thumb slowly over her small fingers. There were no words to describe how much he loved Chryssatin. He could only pray that she would remember how much he loved her after he was gone...

After some time, he reached into his pocket for the coin he'd promised her. She liked to watch the light flicker across the surface of the gold as it flipped down into the dark water. But when he drew breath to speak, he coughed suddenly instead. At the harsh, wheezing sound, Chryssie looked up, alarmed. After all this time, she knew that sound very well. The single cough exploded into a vicious fit that continued until her father was bent double against the side of the well, gasping for air between racking coughs.

Chryssie tugged his hand urgently, raising her arms up to be lifted. Weakly, he hefted her up and she leaned over his shoulder. Chryssie pounded soundly on his back with her small fist as her mother had taught her. It forced the trapped blood up all at once and with one last, hoarse cough, Christopher had a nasty mouthful of it. He spat it onto the muddy ground, grumbling curses as he tried to rid his mouth of the thick, coppery mess. Chryssie's hand patted her father's back gently now, attempting to soothe as he gagged and heaved up the last of it. "Are you alright now, Papa?" she asked softly, looking into his face. He was so pale...

Christopher glared down at the ugly dark-red splatter at his feet, swiping angrily at his mouth with the back of his shaking hand. There was so much of it, much more than before. "Y-Yes," he rasped hoarsely. His breathing was shallow, laboured, his skin sheeted with sweat. "I'm...alright, Chryssie." _No, I'm not. I'm not, I'm not alright._ He felt so weak now, his body so heavy. He'd overtaxed himself. "Th-Thank you..." She curled her arms around his neck for a moment more before squirming to be let down. Carefully, slowly, he lowered her back down to the ground. She watched him ease himself awkwardly, stiffly down to the grassy ground to sit. He leaned back limply, resting his body against the cool stones of the base of the well. His green eyes were narrowed; his vision was slipping in and out of focus. "C..Chryssie..."

Concerned, she slid down to sit beside him, covering his larger hand with her own small one. His fingers curled gently around hers as he tipped his head back, eyes fluttering closed as he struggled to regulate his breathing. Gods, when did the air get so thick, so cold? He'd been out too long, that was it. It was time to go back to Heather now, time to go home. He'd get up, in just a moment. Christopher drew in hitching breaths slowly, wheezing weakly. _Heather... Heather... _He needed to see her, talk to her. He needed to tell her he loved her.

Chryssie shifted to lay her cheek against his arm, both her hands holding one of his. Papa was tired again. It was alright, it was alright. She would wait for him. They would nap, just for a few minutes, she decided, closing her eyes and pressing herself against her father's side. He would feel better once they woke up...

* * *

**FND: **Yes, I know, the chapters are fairly short, but trust me-there are QUITE a few of them. There are perhaps three more chapters before **STAGE I **is complete, and we move on to **STAGE 2.**

This is the last **METAMORPHOSIS **update for tonight. Please, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this new origin story. Goodnight, all. Please, review. I'd love to hear from you!


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